Nocturne
by perhapsicle
Summary: Patience is a self-reliant teen whose existence is drastically altered when she becomes acquainted with the Manhattan Clan, setting off a swift chain of events that will force her to tap into a vein of corruption and reevaluate everything she holds dear.
1. First Aid

Funny, the meteorologist had neglected to mention anything about rain, let alone a storm, Patience thought, sweeping aside a lace curtain and peering anxiously through her bedroom window at the bruised sky above. She had nothing against the rain—if anything, the soft pitter-patter of a transient, harmless shower relieved her—but for as long as she could remember, tumultuous weather made her jumpy. Thunderstorms often caused her to leap right out of her skin, not from some crippling, undiagnosed fear, but from the knowledge that, without the slightest warning, something could go wrong.

She flinched as an impromptu bolt of lightning ignited the dusky skyline and inhaled with added deliberance. "It's just electrical discharge; it's just electrical discharge; it's just electrical discharge," she murmured repeatedly, the effective mantra gradually easing her discomfort. She stood, lips pursed, waiting for thunder's inevitable response. Judging from the lighting, Mother Nature was going to be putting on quite a spectacle tonight. Patience idly tried to guesstimate approximately how long it would last when the abrupt blaring of a telephone momentarily jolted her back to reality. She scrambled into the kitchen with as much grace as a disoriented rhino and, after fumbling with the receiver, hastily answered. It was her mother, Beatrice, on the other end.

"Patience, is that you?"

"No, it's the Sasquatch," Patience teased. "Who else would it be? You know Dad's away for the weekend."

Beatrice let out an audible sigh of exasperation. "Enough games, hon. I just called to let you know that I've taken the infamous graveyard shift at the hospital and won't be back until this morning. The trauma center is practically swimming with patients and they need all the help they can get." Another sigh. "I trust you can take care of yourself? You are seventeen, after all."

Now it was Patience's turn to sigh. She flipped open several cupboards, explored the contents of the refrigerator, and instantaneously noted the characteristic lack of food. Right on cue, her stomach growled. "Sure, they don't call me 'Miss Independent' for nothing. But, um, what should I do about dinner? The cabinets aren't exactly chockfull of goodies."

"Shoot, I forgot to go shopping. You can handle that, can't you? The store isn't far."

Patience bit her lip. She got her driver's license only at the urging of her parents, but they both knew she despised the actual task itself. Especially in such cumbersome weather. "I-I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Don't be such a ninny, Patience, for God's sakes it's only a little rain."

Patience could hear foreign voices shouting discordantly in the background, the unmistakable staccato of Crocs on a squeaky linoleum floor. "Ugh, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. Be a big girl and brave the weather for me, okay? I'll see you soon." Before Patience could so much as say 'goodbye,' her mother hung up. She cradled the phone in her hands for a few more seconds before placing it dejectedly upon the counter.

The matter was urgent—she had no doubt about that—so there was no reason to feel snubbed. If anything, she understood the circumstances of having a trauma nurse for a mother completely; she just didn't always see eye to eye with them. In the operating room, there was no time for family, no time for distractions. Patience unequivocally fell into both categories.

Seeing no other options, she slipped on a pair of gaudy rubber rain boots. They were an eye-popping shade of pink, a gift her father bought her when she was twelve and had no shame. Now, five years later, they were unbearably tight and issued the faint scent of mildew. Cramped toes and discernible odor aside, Patience just didn't have the heart to part with them. As she locked the front door and toddled towards her car, however, she started having second thoughts, and not just about the questionable-smelling galoshes.

The sky was black as pitch with a few noticeable stars that could only be described as vague, cream-white blotches. Patience took her time as she drove down the street, hands clutching the steering wheel at ten and two. Slow and steady wins the race, she thought, cringing as the sound of distant thunder pervaded her eardrums. She put on some jazz music, hoping the swinging, moody beats of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong would drown out the storm and soothe her restless nerves.

She was humming along nonchalantly to Mildred Bailey's "There's A Lull In My Life" when an indistinct figure appeared out of thin air, falling from an imperceptible height and landing smack-dab on the hood of her Hyundai Santa Fe. Patience's foot reflexively hit the brake and the vehicle skidded to a strident halt, the pounding of her heart muffling the onslaught of rain and ragtime tunes. She'd barely made it past the apartment complex and already fate sought to destroy what little composure she possessed.

Remaining in her seat, Patience gazed out the windshield at the inanimate body now sprawled across the hood of her car. She pulled up to a nearby curb, hands trembling. It wasn't moving, hell, she wasn't even entirely sure it was breathing. "I've killed it," she muttered, toying apprehensively with her glasses as the gruesome epiphany struck her. She opened the door and inelegantly terminated the distance between herself and the obscure victim, gasping as her eyes adjusted and she was finally able to distinguish what it was. Even in the dim streetlight she was positive that what she'd stumbled across was not human by any stretch of the imagination.

"H-Hello?" No response. A soupy fog was beginning to settle in, and the rain didn't show any sign of letting up; she could feel it swiftly drenching her clothes and hair. Biting her lip, she poked its ribcage and subsequently heard a primal growl emanate from the organism's chest. At least it was alive.

She draped one of its arms over her shoulder and proceeded to lead it through the backdoor of her brownstone apartment. They trekked up the stairs, Patience carrying virtually all of the creature's weight—a seemingly impossible feat. Upon reaching her room, she consigned it gently to a sleeping bag laid out on the carpet floor, propping its head up with a pillow. Timidly, she perched beside it, head nestled in her knees, attempting to rationally digest the existing situation. When she looked up absentmindedly, she realized it was no longer motionless; rather, it stood slightly hunched over, dark eyes fixed acutely on her.

"I take it you're my rescuer." The voice was unmistakably male; gruff and straight to the point. "Either that or my kidnapper."

"I did _not_ kidnap you...you—whatever you are," Patience attested, almost at a loss for words. He could talk! And he was falsely accusing her of a crime she didn't commit. Sure as hell didn't see that one coming. "In all honesty, you fell from the sky like a bizarre meteorite and hit my car. I knew you were hurt so I brought you here, plain and simple—"

"Gargoyle," he interjected, bringing her ramble to a successful halt before adding, "I'm a gargoyle. Now that that mystery's solved, might I ask the name of my 'rescuer'?" His gaze narrowed and a chill ran involuntarily down her spine. She refused to allow him the satisfaction of further intimidation, however...gargoyle, or not.

"Patience Jenkins." She crossed her arms over her chest, guarded. "And yourself…?"

He gave a cursory survey of the room—eyes sweeping over every inch with evident curiosity—until his scrutiny fell upon her again. "Brooklyn," he said finally, gravitating towards the window and wincing as he attempted to lift the curtain. Patience could understand why; his maroon flesh was shrouded in severe-looking wounds— gashes and lacerations of every shape and size. She imagined it was possible to construct a game of connect the dots with all the abrasions coloring his muscular frame.

"I have a first aid kit," she offered. His attention didn't waver from the window. "Are you looking for something?"

"Yeah," he muttered, plopping himself somewhat clumsily on the sleeping bag as Patience waved a pack of Band-Aids in the air. "Dawn."

"What's so important about dawn?"

"What's so important about those Band-Aids?"

"Well, they have Hello Kitty on them," she explained. "But if that doesn't float your masculine boat, I also have some decorated with the Disney Princesses."

"Hello Kitty it is," Brooklyn sighed, resigned to his fate. He had a feeling no amount of snappy retaliation was going to get him out of this.

Patience smiled and mentally added 'reasoning with supernatural creatures' to her currently unimpressive repertoire. It certainly made her otherwise bland talents, such as playing the sousaphone and cleaning the fishbowl, even more insipid by comparison.

"I was afraid to bandage you up while you were unconscious," she admitted, smattering his body with hydrogen peroxide in an attempt to disinfect his wounds. It was more than a little awkward—rubbing liquid on a perfect stranger's chest, even if there _were_ cotton balls involved—so she figured easygoing chitchat might smooth things over.

"What, did you think I'd suddenly wake up and eat you?" he quipped. Clearly he had no qualms regarding the touchy-feely scenario at present; his smile was a mile wide. Patience frowned, her cheeks reddening.

"You can never be too careful, Beak-boy. This is New York we're talking about here; the city is a cesspool of fishy characters, and I like keeping all of my extremities intact, thank you."

Brooklyn chuckled darkly. "All right, I see your point, but don't think I'm going to forget that Beak-boy comment any time soon."

"I'm sorry, would you prefer Beak-man?" Patience smirked, dispatching one more Band-Aid on his elbow for good measure before leaning back and examining her handy work. "Good as new," she declared, patting his back and accidently provoking an audible groan. "Oops, you might want to take it easy for a few days. Someone really did a number on you and these injuries need time to heal."

"What are you, a doctor?"

"No, but given the fact that my uncle is a geneticist and my mom is a trauma nurse, I'd say medical expertise runs in the family."

"You forgot to mention your father, the brain surgeon," he joked—she was intrinsically easy to tease.

"Actually, he's a florist," she snickered, drawing her mousy brown hair into a chaotic bun and shedding her waterlogged galoshes and sweater. "What about you, got any family?"

"Yeah, a whole clan," he murmured, eyes instinctively flashing towards the general direction of the window, "a clan that's probably wondering where I am right about now."

In the midst of their little meet and greet, the rain had unknowingly adjourned. The sky was no longer an ominous shade of black, but a soft eggplant hue rapidly dissolving into a blend of rose quartz and lavender—it was almost morning.

"You never told me why dawn is so important."

"You'll find out soon enough," he said, smiling ruefully. "Let's just say I'm even more hardheaded during the day."

Within a few moments, dappled sunlight poured in from the window, bathing the apartment in delicious warmth. Patience looked away, shielding her eyes. "Well, Brooklyn, it's definitely morning now." When met with solemn silence, she turned to face him, stunned to discover a stone statue in his place. The resemblance was uncanny and she didn't doubt for a second that it was him, temporarily frozen, like some eerie life-size Italian sculpture coveted by museums. She placed a hand on his shoulder, unnerved by the feeling of dense rock rather than soft flesh. Whether it was the result of ill-timed hibernation or a strange side effect that came with being a gargoyle, she knew—in his current state of vulnerability—that she needed to keep Brooklyn safe.


	2. Q & A

The first thing Patience did after Brooklyn slipped into his impenetrable stone slumber was shower and change. The steady cascade of scalding water against her skin felt like a godsend, relaxing her tense muscles and evaporating the incalculable flood of anxiety accumulated from last night. She ran a comb through her dark tangles until every last strand of hair on her head was stock-straight, her shoulder-length shag no longer resembling a perilous rat's nest. Throwing on shorts and a patterned wool sweater, she returned to her room, belly-flopping carelessly onto the bed and, after a few unsettling minutes, sought to surreptitiously peer at Brooklyn out of the corner of her eye. Patience didn't particularly enjoy the quiet. By nature she could never be considered the most societal person in the world, but she did have a knack for small talk and getting her contemporaries to open up on an almost subconscious level. With Brooklyn in his concrete condition, however, there was little chance of the two of them communicating anytime soon. She bit her lip—there were dozens of questions she wanted to ask him, a veritable cornucopia of inquiries. Meeting a gargoyle wasn't exactly your everyday social norm material. Expeditiously, she grabbed a Sharpie and began jotting down various items that came to mind, substituting her hand in place of paper. By the time she was satisfied, every finger, every pale inch of her palm, was covered in inky black, and she felt slightly ridiculous, mulling the situation over once more. If she asked him these questions, she'd be digging into his personal life, and the last thing she wanted to do was put him on the spot.

As she pondered her ethical obligations, she heard a door slam, and Beatrice's tired voice trailed into the apartment—"I'm home. So many patients, so little time, but another successful night all the same."

_Shoot._ Patience's heart skipped a beat. She had forgotten all about her mother, let alone the possibility of being caught with an unearthly statue in her room to which she had no run-of-the-mill explanation for. The sound of Beatrice's footsteps grew noticeably louder and, with scarcely any other other ideas springing to mind, she hastened to Brooklyn's side and attempted to shove him into her closet.

"You're. Heavier. Than you. Look," she muttered breathlessly. Despite her best efforts, he'd barely moved an inch. After locking the door to spare her some time, she huffed and puffed and eventually managed to succeed in concealing him amongst her clothes, tossing a few of her belongings on top of him to effectively complete his camouflage.

"Patience?" Beatrice knocked on the door, confused and slightly miffed. "Patience, why on earth is this door locked? And why didn't you go shopping last night when I explicitly told you to? What am I supposed to do for food?"

Patience unlocked the door and offered her mother a tentative smile. "Sorry about that. My, uh, car was having trouble starting up—temperamental engine and whatnot. I think there's some canned soup in one of the cabinets."

"I swear cars just don't last these days," Beatrice sighed, placing her hands on her hips. "Ugh, and to top it all off, now I have to go grocery shopping." She glanced at Patience and, somewhat maternally, added, "You really oughta get some sleep. Those dark circles under your eyes are a telltale sign that you're shirking those necessary eight hours." She peeked into her daughter's bedroom, regarding the sleeping bag on the floor with suspicion. "You didn't have anyone over here last night, did you? No friends of the male persuasion?"

Despite her iron will, Patience's thoughts traveled immediately to Brooklyn. If you wanted to get technical, yes, he was male; but he was also the member of an entirely different species—or so she assumed; she'd have to ask him about his gene pool in regards to the animal kingdom later. Still, there was no way she was going to let it slip to her mother that she was harboring a gargoyle in her closet at that very moment.

"I'm afraid I still haven't quite grown out of the phase that deems boys have cooties, and Play-Doh is fun to eat," she said, attempting to keep a straight face.

"Very funny, Patience, you're a regular comedian. Now go to bed before I do something I might regret later." Beatrice turned, a smile on her lips.

Gingerly, Patience watched her mother until she was out of sight before taking off her glasses and slipping into bed. Brooklyn was safe; crisis averted. Her lids, which felt as though they bore the weight of two heavy anvils, were drooping shut before her head hit the pillow and she quickly found release in dreamless repose.

* * *

Brooklyn could've passed for an unconventional alarm clock. One minute Patience was fast asleep, drooling on her pillow in relative bliss, and the next she was hurdling out of bed, vision blurry, a disquieting growl piercing the air. The gargoyle emerged from the small closet in a timely fashion, and stone fragments—some as big as her fist and others as infinitesimal as eyelashes—littered the floor in heaps.

"You sure know how to make an entrance." She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, frowned at the mess on the carpet. "Darn and I just vacuumed too."

"Sorry if I'm not the most accommodating houseguest." Brooklyn shrugged and knelt down to pick up one the items that Patience had formerly used to obscure him. "I hope you didn't put this on me," he divulged, slightly flustered. "It's, uh, not really my color."

Patience didn't need glasses to see that Brooklyn was holding, much to her embarrassment, a bra. The lacy number was a disturbing Christmas present courtesy of her aunt; it was an appalling shade of blue, and without a doubt something she'd stuffed negligently into her closet and never looked at again. That is, until that morning, when she'd accidently launched it at a gargoyle in a weak attempt at concealing him. Oh, the horror.

Cheeks burning redder than Brooklyn's skin, she hastily retrieved the humiliating object in question and shoved it beneath her bed. "It's not mine and you never caught a glimpse of it."

"Hey, I didn't see a thing." He held up his claws in mock innocence as a shamefaced Patience put on her spectacles. "Almost didn't recognize you without those."

"Just call me Four Eyes." She smiled, grateful for the subject change.

"What's that on your hand?"

Uh-oh. The bra was bad, but things were taking a definite turn for the worse. "Nothing, I just…" She paused midsentence. "Um, want to see my fish?" _Good thinking, that'll distract him._

He closed the distance between them in one dexterous move and seized her hand, dark eyes taking in the blotchy ink and clumsy penmanship. "Are these…questions?"

"Guess you're not into fish," she sighed—the jig was up. "Yes, they're questions. While you were asleep I thought about how intriguing you are and decided we should have a Q & A session to clarify a few things."

"You think I'm intriguing?" he asked incredulously, allocating extra emphasis on the word 'intriguing.'

"Why shouldn't I? You have wings for crying out loud!" She made little flapping motions with her free hand before continuing, "Anyway, I decided engaging in a question and answer game was a bad idea."

He blinked, still lingering on the 'intriguing' remark she so casually made. He hadn't received a sincere compliment—and he did consider it a compliment, albeit an unorthodox one—from a female since, well…he couldn't remember when. He had to admit, it was kind of gratifying.

"Hmm, a Q & A session doesn't sound half bad. You are my rescuer after all; I think you're entitled to a couple of questions." He squeezed her hand, a friendly gesture, before adding, "Just so long as it's mutual."

"Of course, but I'm warning you right now, I'm a very boring person—hardly worth mentioning, really." She smirked. "So tell me, what brings you to the Big Apple, Beak-Boy?"

"It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world."

He had a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke, but his voice never faltered and his hand never left hers. Scotland; Castle Wyvern; Thousand-year curses; Xanatos—he left a few stones unturned but she honestly didn't mind, nor did she desire to pry. What really captivated Patience was how fondly he addressed his family, a noteworthy clan of gargoyles with a firmly ingrained sense of moral values. They all sounded so self-sacrificing, so…human, from Goliath, the able-bodied leader, to the aging but astute Hudson.

"I don't watch much television, but from what I've heard I can confidently deduce you guys are the airborne creatures Channel 7 is so infatuated with."

He gazed at her with mild amusement. "What can I say? They can't keep their cameras off us."

"You, media darling, you." She pinched his cheek like a grandmother would a small child. "I can't believe a celebrity fell into my life. Correction: fell_ onto_ my car. And I have the dent to prove it."

"Yeah, well, you won't have to worry about me for much longer." Was she imagining the suddenly doleful tone his voice evoked?

"You're leaving." It was a statement, not a question, and one that made her feel strangely hollow, like her insides were brittle cardboard as opposed to flesh and blood.

He nodded and, realizing that he was still clutching her hand after such a lengthy amount of time, awkwardly released it. Patience quietly looked away. Her palm was warm and sweaty where he'd held it; most of the ink was gone and the letters were nothing more than stark, illegible smears of black.

"I guess you have other fans to see," she said, half-joking.

Brooklyn grinned. "Don't worry, I'm putting you at the top of my list. Maybe I'll even take you to meet the clan."

"I'm honored." She bowed, a blithe chuckle escaping her lips, and reluctantly escorted him to the window. "I just hope they like me."

"Oh, they'll love you, trust me." He opened the window; a light breeze wafted into the room, seemingly clearing their heads with its glacial current.

She smacked his arm playfully, sifting through a vat of mixed emotions. "You better not forget about me." Patience always resented goodbyes, and this one, steeped in supernatural lore, was particularly hard. She wasn't entirely sure why.

"How could I? You may have the dent, but I've got the bruises."

They stood a hairsbreadth apart, both unsure of what else to say, let alone _do_. Did the situation call for a hand shake? A genial hug? It would've been a considerably tense moment had Brooklyn not mounted the windowsill when he did, winking at Patience before plunging head first into the night sky, ascending higher and higher until he was little more than a scarlet speck beside the hazy crescent moon. She waved goodbye; a frigid wind nipped at her fingertips and she clutched her woolen sweater tighter around her body, head swimming with visions of leathery wings and ethereal constellations.


	3. Signs

Studying wasn't quite what Patience had in mind when she thought about Sunday afternoons, yet there she was, pencil in hand, eyes darting rapidly through her algebra textbook while her brain struggled to comprehend even the most rudimentary of equations. She clenched her fists in frustration; mathematics wasn't her primary concern, nor was it situated at the top of her structured list of priorities. No, that exclusive spot was currently occupied by a certain winged friend of hers that hadn't bothered to get in touch for over two weeks.

She bit her lip. Just thinking about Brooklyn made her anxious. There had to be a legitimate explanation for why he was neglecting communication with her. Palpable inquiries swarmed inside her head; a droning hive of bumblebees pursuing answers rather than honey. Would it have been more prudent to have given him her phone number? Did gargoyles even own a telephone? What about email? She flung her pencil onto the desk, utterly discouraged. What really bugged her was the fact that she didn't know whether he was safe with his clan, or lay dead in a gutter somewhere. Dying was as good an excuse as any for not visiting. _Not funny, Patience. Clearly your imagination is working overtime today._

She sank further into her chair, eyes widening as a sudden series of knocks pummeled the front door. She didn't have the slightest clue who it could be—her mother had just left for work and her father was planning to pull another all-nighter at his shop—but at least now she had a tangible excuse to take a hiatus from the algebra homework she was going nowhere with. She slipped on a jacket to disguise the fact that she was still wearing pajamas at five in the afternoon and moseyed down the stairs, stopping at the front door to peer passively through the peephole. Two men and one butch woman stood on the threshold, looking incredibly out of place. Given the guns holstered at their sides, they definitely weren't here to sell cookies. Patience didn't recognize them and briefly contemplated not answering, until a forceful fist collided with the door once more; she flinched and hastily turned the knob, only to be met with six inquisitive eyes.

"Good evening, Miss," the flaxen-haired man positioned front and center spoke, his voice pleasant. It was obvious that, although he wasn't as physically dominating as his cohorts, he held the real power.

"Hello." Patience decided she was going to have to play this little introduction by ear. "Can I help you?"

"As a matter of fact, you can. I am John Castaway, leader of an organization hell-bent on protecting this city from a recent…infestation. Perhaps you've heard of us, the Quarrymen?"

"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."

"Oh well, you're aware of us now." He flashed a coy smile and proceeded in his prominent English accent. "Rumor has it there is an abundance of gargoyle activity in the vicinity. Naturally, we've been going door-to-door in an effort to discover whether there is any truth to the tale."

Patience stared at the floor, suddenly fascinated by the Pergo wood below. This was no organization; this was some sort of cult driven entirely by a cunning Castaway, using irrational malice and fear to turn ordinary citizens into killers. She reacted inventively, knowing full well she was going to have to lie like a rug in order to effectively convince these guys of her ignorance.

"You don't actually believe those fabricated stories do you? Gargoyles are merely a myth, an urban legend that New York City has been taking way too seriously lately."

Castaway frowned. "I assure you, gargoyles are very real and an unscrupulous threat to society. I've experienced them on countless occasions."

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you." Patience started to close the door but the brusque, redheaded woman abruptly grabbed it, thrusting it aside with more force than necessary.

"We aren't through with you yet, girly," she said disparagingly.

"There there, Fleance, that's no way to treat a lady." Castaway waited until she removed her hand, his eyes apologetic. "If you have no information of consequence pertaining to those diabolical creatures, we understand, however"—he fished around the inner pocket of his suit, and distributed a business card to Patience—"should that change, give us a call. Tips are invariably important. And, of course, there are always membership opportunities."

Patience scanned the card briefly, registering a name and phone number in bold lettering, as well as a chromatic illustration of an electrified hammer. She shuddered. "Sure thing, Mr. Castaway. Good luck with your, um, mission."

"When it comes to the extermination of those abominations, I need no luck." He turned, motioning for his two associates to follow. "We'll keep in touch."

She closed the door before Castaway could say anything else, loathing the way his piercing blue eyes seemed to drill through to her very core, the way his charm and social graces were all a carefully cultivated charade and, most importantly, the way he was hunting down her friend and his clan. She gulped. Perhaps that gutter theory wasn't so illusory after all.

She returned to her room to commence studying, pausing in her chair when she noticed her papers were gone. Instantly, she froze, ears picking up on the natural resonance of the apartment and the various sounds of traffic in the distance. _I know I left them here. _She pushed her chair out of the way and bent down, thinking they might've drifted under the desk, and all but screamed when she felt a distinct tug on one of her unkempt pigtails. Sealing her eyes shut, she whirled, letting instinct take the wheel as she launched her fists at the intruder and felt one of her hands collide with something solid.

"Whoa, easy there, tiger; I'm the last person who's going to hurt you."

Upon hearing the familiar voice, she quickly opened her eyes. _Brooklyn! _He was rubbing his jaw—she assumed, in her silly moment of confusion, she must've accidently connected with it—but that didn't diminish the massive smile on his face. Her body flooded with happiness and, realizing that he'd been interminably worrying her for nothing, a timely torrent of indignation promptly washed away those formerly buoyant feelings.

She shot him a withering look and his smile faltered.

"Okay, definitely not the greeting I had in mind." He moved closer to her. "What's eating you?"

"Gee, maybe it has something to do with the fact that, all this time, I thought you were in trouble? That the reason you haven't bothered to swing by…" She stopped midsentence, not wanting to go into excess detail about bodies in gutters and her regrettably overactive imagination. She composed herself and looked him straight in the eye. "You, uh, had me worried there for a while."

She toyed awkwardly with the hem of her boxer shorts, waiting for some sort of response. Why did he always succeed in catching her at her worst? This time it was boxers and an oversized jacket, their previous encounter involved flashy pink galoshes and her overall appearance comparable to that of a wet cat—she could never win.

"Hey, I worried about you, too," Brooklyn said, surprising her with his sudden sincerity. "Don't even think for a second that you weren't on my mind. But the people of this city aren't exactly discreet in their 'anti-gargoyle policy,' and the Quarrymen—"

She interrupted him, recollecting her recent brush with Castaway. "The Quarrymen? You mean these guys?" She retrieved the business card from her pocket and handed it to Brooklyn.

He snarled under his breath. "Where did you get this?"

"John Castaway gave it to me. He dropped by out of the blue a little while ago, and pitched some nonsensical spiel about gargoyles being a danger to society. Apparently, he's the head honcho of your not-so-friendly fan club."

"Did he threaten you?"

She bit her lip. "If you mean did he try to intimidate me into joining his nutty group, then yes."

Brooklyn's ordinarily dark eyes glowed with the blinding intensity of car headlights. "If he hurt you—"

"Relax, tough guy, I'm okay. I can take care of myself." She smiled weakly. "I was able to take a swing at you, wasn't I?"

Despite her lighthearted repartee, he looked anything but amused. "The Quarrymen don't mess around. Those wounds you dressed—the first time I met you—they were the result of Castaway's scum. You need protection."

"What I _need_ is a restraining order, but that's a different story."

"It's dangerous to be around me."

"Danger is my middle name."

They stared at each other for a few overwrought minutes, amassing their thoughts, trying not to focus on the Quarrymen and the daunting issues at hand. Brooklyn's eyes swiftly reverted back to their normal shade. Though she hadn't expressed her feelings in so many words, he was fully aware that she was willing to risk her life to protect him, to stay with him—she was just that kind of person.

"So…I take it you still want to meet the clan." He plowed through the heavy silence, hope evident in his tone.

"Obviously."

"Would you say now's as good a time as any?"

Patience blanched. "Um, right now?"

"No, next Tuesday, of course right now."

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?"

"I don't know, you tell me." He glanced at an imaginary wristwatch. "But make it quick, I'd like to get to the castle before sunrise. Or, at this rate, before the next ice age."

"I liked you better when you couldn't talk. Where's that darn sun when you need it?"

He gazed at her in silence until she sighed, tossing her hands up in exasperation and defeat. "All right already, we'll go, but first"—she frantically rummaged through one of her drawers, seizing a circular object from the clutter with a grin—"I have to consult my Magic 8-Ball."

"Your what?"

"It's a device used for fortune-telling. I simply ask it a question, shake it, and voilà! The Magic 8-Ball advises me on what course of action to take."

"In other words, sorcery?" His eyes widened.

"You could call it that, but to be honest, I don't think it's quite as complex as magic. Watch and learn, my friend." She peered at the black and white ball and prepared a question. "Oh, Magic 8-Ball, should I go with Brooklyn to visit his clan?" Vigorously she shook it, watching the pale plastic die flip pell-mell in the clear liquid and finally rest on an outcome.

"Huh, this one must be faulty…" She attempted to sneak it behind her back but Brooklyn was too quick, snatching it before she could conceal the ball and shake away the response.

"'Signs point to yes,'" he read aloud, smirking. "That settles it, you're coming with me." Inattentively, he cast the ball onto the desk and maneuvered a protesting Patience into his arms, ignoring her flailing limbs as he carried her bridal style to the window. "You're heavier than you look."

She chose to disregard his last comment, as well as the ongoing wave of déjà vu that ensued. "Hold your horses, Brooklyn!"

"Sorry, no can do."

"Read my lips, Beak-Boy: Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim, and Patience has to stay on the ground."

"I'm not going to drop you if that's what you're thinking."

"But—"

"Hold on tight!"

She buried her face into his chest just as he propelled heedlessly out the window, wings unfurling in a remarkable otherworldly display. The sudden immersion of wintry air incited goose bumps on her flesh; she shivered, glancing at the disorienting lights of the city below, and wrapped her arms around Brooklyn's neck. _This is going to be a long night._


	4. Crossfire

From above, New York City was an overwhelmingly surreal manifestation of kaleidoscopic colors, distorted figures, and glistening radiance. The beauty of the frost-laden landscape received an unparalleled boost due to the splendor of an aerial viewpoint, capturing an undeniable magic that most residents remained uniformly oblivious of. Melodies, both symphonic and cacophonous, reverberated throughout the turbulent streets, and the sounds seemed to crescendo in harmonious succession. Not even the scent of garbage and dissipating exhaust fumes could spoil the singularly chaotic charm of the Big Apple.

Patience shivered and tore her eyes away, brilliant prisms of light reflecting off the lenses of her glasses. She'd never witnessed her hometown from such a startling height and it was as breathtaking as it was frightening. She inhaled sharply, breathing with a jagged uneasiness that she did her best to conceal. It was only as she glanced at her pale legs—noting the mismatched socks gracing her feet and the blatant lack of shoes—that she realized something very disturbing.

"I'm not wearing any clothes!" The epiphany was, in all conscience, half true. Aside from the bulky jacket and aforementioned socks, her body was clad in boxers and a light pajama top. While her getup was comfortable, it was admittedly not the best choice of attire for traipsing around the wintry city at night in.

"You look clothed to me," Brooklyn said, eyeing her appraisingly.

"Says the guy wearing a loincloth."

"Touché."

She rolled her eyes. "I can't believe I'm going to meet your family…in my Star Wars boxers no less."

"Just wow them with the Force, they won't notice a thing."

"Hardy har har. I take it they're all as scantily dressed as you?"

"Do you have something against loincloths?"

"No," she admitted, smiling coyly. "Tarzan and George of the Jungle pulled them off rather nicely. What with their wild hair, and their rippling pectorals, and—"

"I get it," he mumbled, abruptly cutting her off. A thinly disguised scowl colored his face.

"Why the sudden hostility?" she asked, gently touching his shoulder. "It must be because I forgot to include the manliest of them all, right?"

"And that would be…?"

She stared at him intently. "You."

Brooklyn snorted. "Oh yeah, I'm the man of every girl's dreams." He shook his head slowly, eyes downcast. "More like nightmares."

She wrestled to keep her voice level as she said, "Look, I'm not trying to get mushy here, but you have something that Tarzan and George don't: you're a real, flesh and blood person. Those jungle boys are just figments of somebody else's hyperactive imagination. I can't accidently punch them, or run my fingers through their hair, or have snarky conversations with them."

"Or leap off of buildings with them," he added, smiling now.

"That too." She ruffled Brooklyn's white hair, made silvery by the incandescence of a waxing moon. "See? There's no making you up."

His wistful eyes lingered upon her face before flickering away to presumably navigate around the upcoming skyscrapers. Patience scanned the horizon, gasping as the acclaimed Eyrie Building came into view, an imposing façade spawned entirely from the wealth and ingenuity of a grandiose billionaire.

"Xanatos," she muttered caustically under her breath, "he's one guy I could go without meeting."

"Can't say I trust him myself…"

"Then why live in such close quarters?"

"Because we have nowhere else to go," he sighed bitterly. "Our previous home isn't exactly in topnotch condition."

"Sounds like you could use a good interior decorator." She frowned. "The clock tower incident, it wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Castaway's goons, would it?"

He nodded. "More like _everything_ to do with them."

She balled her hands into fists, struggling to hold back the mounting surge of resentment she felt. "If I ever see that guy again, I swear, he'll be sucking his meals through a straw for the rest of his miserable life."

"And how do you plan on going about that?" he asked, attempting to suppress the derision in his tone. In all honesty, he was somewhat impressed by her sudden ferocity; it was like he was witnessing a whole other side of Patience, a side that was both striking and slightly amusing.

"Karate," she said candidly. "If Jackie Chan can do it, so can I."

They settled upon one of the castle's many turrets. Despite the smooth landing, she tightened her grip on Brooklyn so as not to lose balance. She felt unsteady on her feet, like she'd ridden an adrenaline-inducing roller coaster and didn't even know it. So much for becoming an eventual black belt; if mastering basic coordination was tricky, she didn't even want to imagine the toilsome effort that went along with mastering karate.

"Is this the girl you've been talking about?"

Patience heard the reedy voice before she could identify who it belonged to. Automatically, she turned in the direction she perceived it to be coming from, slightly wobbly courtesy of her newfound jelly legs. An olive-green gargoyle materialized from the shadows, a curious expression plastered to his face. His small stature surprised her, and his youthful features made him look more like a plush toy than a savage combatant.

She glanced at Brooklyn. "You've been talking about me?"

"Only every second of every day for the past couple of weeks," the little gargoyle confirmed, smirking.

Brooklyn shrugged, feigning innocence. "Pay no attention to Lex, he's, uh, prone to exaggeration."

"I beg to differ, lad." The statement was highlighted with a thick Scottish brogue. "You've been sounding like a broken record, and that's a fact."

Patience was beginning to lose track of who was who. Before she could so much as blink, more gargoyles had arrived, manifesting out of the eventide darkness, each eagerly adding their own two cents to the mix. She caught several names and immediately committed them to memory, drawing on Brooklyn's tales and descriptions to fill in any blanks.

"So," Angela, a slender female with a lavender complexion, piped up, "what's her name?"

"Patience," Brooklyn stated.

"We're not getting any younger, lad, might as well be quick with introductions."

Brooklyn shook his head. "No, no, no, I mean her name _is _Patience, not to actually_ be_ patient."

"Aye, a little clarification goes a long way." The tan gargoyle pensively stroked his whiskers. "I'm known as Hudson, lass. I assume the lad's already told ye plenty about us."

"Well, I wouldn't say 'plenty,' but—" Patience was unable to finish her sentence, distracted by the sudden conspicuous cameo of yet another gargoyle. This one was powerfully built and his skin tone, in addition to his dark eyes and hair, was reminiscent to that of Angela's. Everything about him, from his strong jawline to his towering frame, seemed to scream "warrior."

Settling his massive wings about him like a cloak, he inquired, somewhat bluntly, "Who is this?"

Patience blanched as he observed her, a hint of suspicion coloring his otherwise reserved countenance. "I'm Patience," she said, offering a shaky smile despite the burgeoning swell of apprehension she felt. "And you must be Goliath." She glanced at the circle of gargoyles that had formed around her. Bronx, utterly enthralled, sniffed and pawed at her legs until she relented and patted his head. "Brooklyn's told me stories about you guys. I, uh, hope that's okay."

"Of course it is," Angela insisted cordially. "After all, we've heard stories about you, too. Frankly, I think it's wonderful to have another girl around here." She leaned closer to Patience and whispered, "It'll be a nice change, not having to deal with so many boys on my own."

"A nice change, huh?" A hefty, greenish-blue gargoyle—Patience immediately identified him as Broadway—elbowed Angela playfully. "And here I thought you liked having me around."

Angela blushed and nudged Broadway in return. Goliath fixed his purposeful eyes on Brooklyn. "I have certain qualms about placing trust in strangers, especially given these dangerous times." He exhaled slowly and scrutinized Patience for an indefinite amount of time, as if just looking at her would be enough to ascertain her true character. "However, if my second-in-command trusts you, then I shall as well."

Patience released a conciliatory breath of relief. As Goliath turned away, she glanced intentionally at Brooklyn and silently mouthed, "Second-in-command?" He merely shrugged, beak curved in a nervous smile.

Bronx moaned persistently at her feet and proceeded to flip over gratefully as Patience rubbed his tummy whilst Broadway leaned in and incongruously sniffed her shoulder. "Hey, you smell like cake"—Patience's eyes widened—"and nutmeg and sugar cookies and vanilla." He licked his lips mirthfully. "Puts me in the mood for dessert just thinking about it."

"Well, maybe it has something do with the fact that I live above a bakery?"

"I knew I liked you!" He grinned and took another long whiff. "Next time Brooklyn visits you, I, uh, think I'll accompany him."

"There he goes again, thinking with his stomach." Lexington poked Broadway's impressive belly. "You just said the magic words, Patience; there's no getting rid of him now."

Suddenly, the distinct whir of a helicopter drowned out any and all noise; nothing could be discerned except the maddening drone of huge metal blades rapidly cutting through a pocket of frigid air. The unknown aircraft hovered ominously in the sky, demanding attention as a blindingly bright light washed over the castle, probing the formerly opaque building and illuminating their location. Without warning, guns began to fire. Despite the absolute chaos, the din of the copter, and the emphatic pounding of her heart, Patience could perceive an authoritative voice rise above the pandemonium and shout, "Get inside!"

Several gargoyles immediately employed the use of their wings, nimbly gliding toward the helicopter with teeth and claws bared. Patience overrode her current panic-stricken mentality and scrambled to reach Brooklyn. Compulsively she clutched his arm, pushing him to the stone floor with a grunt as a barrage of bullets descended from the armored chopper like a virulent rainstorm. Holding him down in what she hoped was an area safely out of the crossfire, she felt something abruptly graze her cheek, followed by a subtle burning sensation and a swift, excruciating pain that inadvertently ignited a section of her face, triggering her eyes to well with tears.

Ignoring the throbbing discomfort, she helped Brooklyn up and quickly followed the other gargoyles as they made their way inside the castle, all of them visibly distraught and outraged by the uncalled-for attack. After meandering down a twisted hallway, they entered an expansive room teeming with elegant dated tapestries, colossal windows, and an ornate crystal chandelier. A cavernous fireplace infused the otherwise drafty space with ample warmth and fiery effulgence.

"Those cowards…attacking us from the safety of their flying machine," Angela muttered acerbically. "We did absolutely nothing to provoke them."

"Aye, but at least no one was hurt."

In the illuminated room, Brooklyn glimpsed Patience for the first time since the foray, slightly alarmed. "Uh, you might want to rephrase that sentence." He touched her cheek and she hastily pulled away, placing a tentative hand on the right side of her face.

"I-It's only a scratch." She smiled half-heartedly and removed her hand, peering at the staggering amount of sticky vermillion liquid oozing onto her palm. "A very big scratch apparently."

"Are you alright?" Brooklyn asked, anguish contorting his features.

She tried to appear nonchalant, as if bullets scraping her flesh were an everyday occurrence. "Yup, no major harm done. I didn't really care for that cheek anyway."

"Au contraire, my dear," a masterful voice uttered upon entering the room. "It's a lovely cheek, and one worth saving, wouldn't you agree, Owen?"

"Indeed, sir."

Patience glanced at the two additional men, mentally sizing them up. _So this is David Xanatos?_ He didn't give her any bad vibes, didn't, in fact, give her any reason not to trust him—aside from screwing with the gargoyles in the past. If anything he could've been labeled the epitome of "sensible businessman"—from his dark suit to his slick goatee, there were vestiges of something inherently crafty about him; he always had a plan, no doubt about it and, fortunately, he always had a right-hand man to bounce said plans off of. Right from the get-go she could tell Owen was a stoic, well-dressed, pragmatic man with a sparse supply of facial expressions to offer. Blonde-haired and sporting a large pair of glasses, the only remarkable feature about him was his left hand, which was immersed entirely in solid stone. Brooklyn hadn't mentioned enough about Owen for her to truly deduce his faculties, so she kept her assessments of him to a minimum.

"I'm terribly sorry about what happened." Xanatos leaned against his desk, relatively at ease. Despite the rapid assault on his home, he didn't look the least bit shaken. "Mark my words, those lunatics who attacked you will not go unpunished."

Patience winced as Owen rubbed a cotton swab doused with a sting-inducing salve on her cheek. "Hold still, please."

"That wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so rough," she mumbled, recoiling from his touch.

His thin mouth twisted into what looked like some semblance of a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

She allowed him to continue without protest. The ointment smelled faintly of eucalyptus and, upon contact, almost immediately relieved the concentrated pain she felt. Aside from the copious amount of blood on her jacket and the bandage Owen planted squarely on her cheek, she looked perfectly healthy.

"I'd better take you home while you're still in one piece," Brooklyn explained, protectively seeking the warm shelter of her hand.

She scowled. "There's no need to treat me like some porcelain doll. I said I was fine, and I am."

"Could've fooled me."

She turned to bid everyone goodnight. After exchanging several hugs and sending a dutiful 'thank you' Owen's way, she departed with Brooklyn to one of the turrets for a proper takeoff. Glossy snowflakes began to fall in hyperboreal clusters as he hoisted her into his arms.

"That was some party," she said—a dainty snowflake chanced to flutter onto her outstretched palm.

"Yeah, just don't scare me like that again."

"Doth my ears deceive me? _I_ scared a gargoyle?"

He glanced sheepishly at the floor. "Seeing all that blood on you…knowing you'd been injured as a direct result of trying to protect me"—he shook his head, eyeing her warmly—"you must have some hero complex. Either that or a death wish."

"Well, I don't like to toot my own horn, but…hey!" She swatted at his arm. "Remind me next time _not_ to save you."

Brooklyn sailed off the monolithic building, leathery wings spread out in their entirety, capturing brisk currents of favorable wind. As they floated over a shadowy New York in silence, all he could think about was how relieved he was that Patience was safe—and on a visceral, almost subconscious level, how good it was to hold her in his arms.


	5. Pursuit

Exhaustion seeped into Patience Jenkins' bones and swam though her limbs, a toxic poison rendering her heavy-eyed and somnolent. She had blue moons under her eyes from a definitive absence of sleep and her feet felt heavy, like she was sporting concrete shoes instead of her usual pair of weather-beaten Doc Martens; still, she kept her chin up and her gaze straight ahead. Snow as pale as powdered milk blanketed the streets and fell unceremoniously from the sky. People walked carefully in slow, hesitant strides, tiptoeing around steep white mounds and frosted puddles. As she rounded a corner, the seven-year-old boy beside her quietly squeezed her hand, their breaths visible in the stagnant air.

"You don't look so good," he murmured.

Stunned, Patience gently tousled his wind-swept black hair. "I appreciate your concern, Hayden, but I'm fine, really I am."

"You're the only one who can walk me home from school," he pressed, skeptical of her response. "It's a long walk. I don't like going all by myself."

"Relax! A few sleepless nights aren't going to be enough to put me out of commission. You're way too young to be worrying so much."

"Mama says the streets are full of bad men."

"I hate to say it, but your mother's right."

"I feel a lot safer with you. High school kids never have to worry about that dangerous stuff. They can take care of themselves."

"You'd be surprised. Oftentimes high school kids wind up being the masterminds behind the crimes." She pulled the boy closer and added in a hushed whisper, "I've even seen police officers arrest a student or two at my school."

"Really?" His eyes widened, alight with fervor and curiosity. "Did they use handcuffs?"

"Every single time."

They paused outside of a crumbling brownstone where shabby curtains the color of fresh-cut honeydew hung at each window and an ancient tabby cat prowled underfoot, its whiskers flecked with snowflakes. Smiling, the boy scampered up the deteriorating stoop while she waved goodbye from the sidewalk. The two parted as they did every other day—a simple afternoon custom that Patience had grown inordinately fond of. Hayden's mother worked like a Trojan, waiting tables at seedy diners, categorizing books at the library, scrubbing the houses of well-to-do neighbors—anything to make ends meet. Patience had known her son since he was little more than a runny-nosed infant wailing in his hand-me-down crib and, longing to help the struggling single parent, kindly offered to walk Hayden home from elementary school, never suspecting that she would eventually procure an attachment with the child. He was like a little brother to her, though his fascination with the intricate realm of law enforcement was a touch unnerving.

Sighing, Patience stroked the tabby's head, its striped body arching under her mittened hand. She watched the kitchen light flash on before veering down the avenue that lead to her development, holding tightly to her satchel as she passed naked trees sick with the season. Once inside the lofty apartment, all traces of the atmospheric winter evaporated; warmth hugged every inch of her frozen body and the saccharine scent of the McAllister's bakery instantly soothed her nerves. She wandered upstairs, inserted her key into the lock, and opened the door, ears catching the distinct sound of muffled voices within the living room, nose picking up on freshly brewed coffee mingling with the jungle aroma of her father's prized hydrangeas.

"Mom, I'm home, what's going—" The rest of the words glued themselves to her windpipe as she noticed Castaway's well-dressed figure lurking in the hallway.

"Ah, Patience, always a pleasure to see you." He smiled and all she could think about was punching him in the mouth, hard enough that at least one dazzlingly white tooth fell out.

Clearing her throat, she willed those tempting thoughts away with a casual flip of her hair. "Oh, Mr. Castaway, I, uh, didn't expect to see you here."

"You two know each other?" Beatrice intervened, raising a quizzical brow as she entered the kitchen, Christmas mug in tow.

"Vaguely," Patience admitted. The blonde man placed a speculative hand on her shoulder—she shrugged it off, feigning civility.

To Patience's utmost surprise, her mother's face softened. "John here is a philanthropist. He's thinking of donating money to Manhattan General. Isn't that wonderful?"

Patience merely nodded, her tongue having turned to sandpaper. Since when were her mother and Castaway on a first-name basis?

"I only live to help others." He doled out a modest little shrug, smirking. "After all, what can one humble, unpretentious gentleman do with millions of dollars?"

_Gee, I don't know, hunt innocent enchanted creatures? _Patience swallowed back the bile that his nauseating presence seemed to stimulate.

Oblivious to the tension, Beatrice sipped her hazelnut coffee, gazing warmly at the self-proclaimed gentleman with the Armani suit and designer shoes. "You're a saint, John; that money will be put to good use at the hospital. We'll be able to purchase brand new equipment, get some remodeling done…I-I just can't thank you enough."

"Thank your daughter," he explained, glancing cordially at Patience. "Without her, I would've never possessed enough faculties to come up with such a beneficial idea. She's the flame that sparked my inspiration."

"That's my girl, always thinking of others." Beatrice draped an arm around Patience, acquiring a perfect view of her timeworn wristwatch in the process. Grimacing, she released her daughter and hastily scooped up a jacket from a kitchen chair, flashing a contrite smile at Castaway. "Might we discuss your generous proposition another time? My shift starts in ten."

"Of course, I understand entirely. Have a good night, Mrs. Jenkins." The man straightened his silk tie as she showed him out, tarrying just long enough to linger in the doorframe, cobalt eyes glossing over Patience. "Before I take my leave, however…Patience, if you don't mind me asking, what on earth happened to your face?"

Reflexively Patience's hand reached up to touch her right cheek, fingers brushing against the tender, discolored area of her epidermis that hadn't quite healed yet. She wasn't concerned about the superficial damage; a scar was a scar, it would eventually become less noticeable over time—she did hope, however, that said battle scar would lend her the benefit of a more rugged, tough-as-nails visage. Then again, Harry Potter had glasses and a scar and he didn't exactly come across as menacing.

"I, uh, fell," she explained lamely, lying through her teeth. "The sidewalks are terribly slippery this time of year."

"Patience is always falling over something," Beatrice cut in, chuckling. "It's part of her charm."

"I see," Castaway mused. "Well, do be careful, Patience—it pains me to see a pretty face all dinged up." Smiling gravely, he shuffled reticently out the door, the sound of his expensive shoes casting ghostly echoes down the hall. The two women stared after him, listening as the reverberations gradually faded into the distance.

"He's a handsome devil, isn't he?" Beatrice affirmed, the first to break the silence. "Well-mannered, well-dressed, the very embodiment of humanitarianism…plus, he seems to have taken quite a shine to you."

Though it took an exorbitant amount of effort, Patience refrained from gagging. "He's not my type."

"In any case, I'm surprised he hasn't been snatched up yet. He's so chiseled…and that accent—"

"Mom, aren't you late for work?"

Beatrice gasped and slipped on her jacket, disappearing so abruptly that she was unable to come up with a characteristic rebuttal.

_Alone at last—_Patience had never felt so relieved to have the apartment to herself, especially if it meant avoiding a potentially awkward mother-daughter conversation. She nearly screamed when, out of the blue, the phone rang, shattering the feeble illusion of momentary peace she so desperately craved. Answering out of habit more than anything else, she found herself stumped by the stranger on the other end.

"Meet me outside," a feminine voice commanded.

"Who the hell is this?"

"A friend…"

"I'm not sure I understand—"

"Patience," the cryptic woman interrupted, "I'm outside your apartment as we speak, and from the looks of it, I'd say your mother just left. Perfect timing."

"You're _stalking_ me?"

"No…look, you can trust me, all right? I'm a cop."

"Right, like I haven't heard that one before." She peered through the blinds of her kitchen window, caught a glimpse of a snow-covered streetlamp and a sleek red car parked in a sea of shadows.

"You're overly paranoid."

"Please, I'm not the one who won't cough up her name."

"…Elisa," she admitted, sighing in defeat, "Detective Elisa Maza—that clear-cut enough for you? If so, get your butt out here. We need to have a little chat."

* * *

Hey, long time no see! Or, in this case, long time no chapter. I can't even begin to stress how sorry I am—school seems to be chiseling away at all my precious hobbies, writing especially. In the meantime, however, revel in this long-overdue update! I'm sure you're all probably thinking to yourselves "wtf mate, no Brooklyn?" and believe me, I know how you feel. Nevertheless, mama's gotta lay the groundwork for boatloads of upcoming plottage, so suck it up, buttercup.


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